


but we shall all be changed

by spacenarwhal



Series: for we are saved by hope [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Families of Choice, Family, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, M/M, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Retirement, Roman Catholicism, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outside the air is grease-slick, heavy with last night’s rain and newspapers turned to pulp in the gutters. The quiet rustle of Jack’s jacket as he shifts against Foggy’s chest draws Matt’s attention from a passing car a few streets over, helps him rein in his focus. He listens to the tightening of Jack’s arms around Foggy’s neck, the tread of Foggy’s feet over the damp cement as they make their way towards the subway station closest to their apartment. Jack’s big now, almost too big to carry like this, his sneakered feet thumping irregularly against Foggy’s legs as they go down the stairs. But it was too early to call any of their usual sitters, and Matt couldn’t—Matt wouldn’t—let Foggy go alone. </p><p>[In the wake of a personal tragedy, Matt, Foggy, and Jack navigate grief, faith, and family.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	but we shall all be changed

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note # 1: Just want to be upfront, Foggy isn't the sick one in this fic. This isn't that fic.

It’s early still when they head out.

Outside the air is grease-slick, heavy with last night’s rain and newspapers turned to pulp in the gutters. The quiet rustle of Jack’s jacket as he shifts against Foggy’s chest draws Matt’s attention from a passing car a few streets over, helps him rein in his focus to the people closest to him. He listens to the tightening of Jack’s arms around Foggy’s neck, the tread of Foggy’s feet over the damp cement as they make their way towards the subway station closest to their apartment. He’s big now, almost too big to carry like this, his sneakered feet thumping irregularly against Foggy’s legs as they go down the stairs. But it was too early to call any of their usual sitters, and Matt couldn’t—Matt wouldn’t—let Foggy go alone. ( _“I’m sorry Kid, but we have to go to Nan’s.”_ )

Jack’s asleep again before their train’s even arrived, his breathing drowned out by the screech of each passing train. It’s in moments like these that Matt misses the Nelsons’ old apartment in Hell’s Kitchen the most. 

The train is empty except for a few others commuters, people who smell like bitter coffee or the lingering sourness of too much drink. Jack wakes briefly when they sit down and Foggy has to adjust him to compensate for Jack’s lengthening body. Matt doesn’t know how Jack manages it, how he can sleep with the churning metal of the train’s wheels groaning beneath them, the train-car rocking like an upset boat at sea.

(He’ll be six this year, and Matt already finds himself missing his infancy in a way he could never imagine doing when Jack was teething or throwing tantrums or incapable of sleeping through the night.)

Foggy swallows once, twice, his breathing changes countless times but he never speaks. Matt curls his hand around Jack’s knobby ankle, just over the ridge of his sneaker (“They’re Captain America, Daddy!” Jack never tires of telling Matt every time he ties them for him, knocking his feet together in his excitement). He presses his leg to Foggy’s, knee to calf to ankle, holds his shoulder steady against Foggy’s own and tries to think of something to say that can actually make a difference. 

“Our stop.” Foggy says after what feels like hours, each syllable perfectly enunciated, but all Matt hears is the uptick of his heart as they stand. Jack’s still sleeping by the time they arrive at the Nelsons’ apartment. (He catches himself at the front door, because it isn’t really—not anymore.) Matt folds his cane in order to take Jack from Foggy’s arms—sleep-warm and pliant, his breath puffing damply against Matt’s neck—listens to the jingle of Foggy’s keys as he opens the door. 

The quiet that greets Matt is a tangible thing, all too familiar in Matt’s ears. The kind of silence that’s left behind by a missing person. Foggy sets his hand on Matt’s back, guides Matt down the hall more out of routine than necessity. Even without his senses to help him, he’s visited the Nelsons’ home enough over the last few years to know it almost as well as their own (knows it well enough to notice the lack of Edward Nelson in every room, the quiet where once Matt could expect to hear the shuffle of his house shoes, the lub-bub of his heart, the sterile, medicinal smell that would follow him back from the hospital after check ups and treatment sessions).

He focuses on Jack, an old trick he’ll have to wean himself of one day soon, but for now it’s enough, a comfort to the growing unease in his stomach that Matt isn’t strong enough to go without. 

There are at least three unfamiliar people in the kitchen already. He thinks two of them might be an aunt and uncle Matt’s met at a few other Nelson family gatherings but he can’t be sure from here, right now he can’t be bothered with figuring it out.

“Mom?” Foggy calls out, his fingers dig into the small of Matt’s back momentarily before dropping away all together.

Anna Nelson rises from the kitchen table with a gentle scrape of the chair legs on the tile flooring. She meets them at the threshold of the kitchen, throws her arms around Foggy before either of them can speak. Their hearts beat hard, their grief rings in Matt’s ears, tastes like salt in the air. Standing at their side he feels like an interloper, shifts Jack’s sleeping weight in his arms and grounds himself in the easy, unbothered rhythm of Jack’s breathing. 

“Matt.” Anna greets him, her hand warm on his arm, and then there’s the quiet pat of her hand on Jack’s back. Jack’s breathing shifts momentarily but he doesn’t wake. She swallows hard as she strokes over Jack’s back, Matt hears the moment she takes to steady herself. “You can set him down in my room.” She offers, and there’s a part of Matt that wants to say no, that wants to keep his hold secure around his son, wants to anchor himself in Jack’s fluttering heartbeat. Instead he follows Anna away from the kitchen, keeps his steps even and measured, slows whenever Jack’s breathing lightens to the point where Matt thinks he might wake. Matt sets Jack down on bedding that smells like ivory soap and cold cream. Anna doesn’t hover over him, she never has, has never questioned Matt’s ability to take care of Jack on his own. She’s already stepping back into the hallway after Matt’s reached the bed. Since the first time she and Mr. Nelson welcomed Matt into their home, all those years ago, they’ve always done their best to make it accessible to him. Now, with Jack, that’s extended beyond the common spaces Matt’s been familiar with for years and Matt will never have words enough to share his appreciation to them. He never thanked Edward—no, he pushes down the thought, the threatening regret that’ll over take him if he lets it. Matt kisses Jack’s forehead before he goes, leaves the bedroom door open behind him so that Jack won’t wake up alone in the dark. 

Anna is still waiting from him in the hallway and though she doesn’t offer Matt her arm she stays close as they make their way back to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry.” Matt says before he can stop himself, still half a dozen steps from the kitchen doorway (Foggy’s voice carries into the hallway, soft but kind as he asks his aunt—so it is his aunt—about her show dogs). Anna’s breathing pauses, her heart stutters in her chest. Matt’s mouth is dry and his eyes burn behind his glasses. He tries to swallow the bulging knot in his throat but can’t will it away completely. Anna sighs, long and tired, a slow, compressed exhale that makes Matt’s throat ache. Her fingers are soft where they touch his hand, though there’s a slight weakness to her grip that belies the arthritis in her joints. “He loved you both so much.” She says, “You know that—that little boy was everything to him—and you, he was always so happy for you and Foggy—” Her voice breaks. Matt covers her hand, reaches for her other arm. He feels terrible. Weak. His grief surges up, a tidal wave that overtakes him though it has not right to. Edward Nelson, wonderful as he always was to Matt, is not his to mourn like this. He knows what he needs to do. He has to take care of _them_. It is the least he can try to do. 

Still, he’s not sure if he’s holding her or she’s holding him, his throat tight and his head full of her rapidly beating heart, her uneven pulse, the warm salt of shed tears. Matt is drowning. In the distance, Jack’s sleeping heart beats, undisturbed by loss, a beacon calling him to shore.

-

He hadn’t been trying to listen. But the cold had already begun to trickle through the gaps Foggy had left in the blankets when he’d gotten out of bed. Matt, who has never perfected the ability to ignore the rapid thrash of Foggy’s heart, could hear it, the moment it stilled and then doubled, the quivering sound of his voice when—

“He’s gone.” Foggy said, shock-still and small, still standing outside their bedroom door, cell phone clutched so tightly in one hand Matt could hear the plastic creak. “He’s—Mom took him to the hospital last night and—he’s _gone_.” His next inhale twisted in his throat, a tight curl that wrapped around the soft tissue that lined the inside of Foggy’s chest. “He’s gone.” He’d gone silent after that, even his sobs muted as Matt wrapped his leaded arms around him, feeling useless and dumbstruck as he held Foggy close and tried to think of something, _anything_ , that could be more than an empty platitude. He dimly remembered their plans for the day: They were supposed to take Jack to the library for story time. Maybe grab lunch afterward. Now…

He’d stroked Foggy’s unwashed hair with short rough sweeps of his hand, stuck close to the curvature of his scalp, covered the nape of his neck with his palm and held him because there was nothing else to do.

Dad had died so long ago, but standing there in the home Matt and Foggy made together (made for one another) with Foggy shaking in his arms, Matt felt all of ten years old again. “I’m sorry.” He’d said, voice rough and words useless while Foggy cried against his shoulder, his hands fisted between their bodies as though this was something he could try to defend himself from like Matt had taught him to years and years ago. “I’m so sorry Fog.”

It didn’t matter, it would never matter, that Edward Nelson had been dying for over a year now, chemicals and radiation eating him away from the inside out as the doctor’s delayed the inevitable, that he’d made his peace with it, said his goodbyes. Foggy would carry this moment inside himself for the rest of his life. This loss. 

It had taken Matt so long to realize it, but he knew it now. There was no being ready. There was no such thing as enough time. 

-

The early morning wears on. The rain starts again, a muted drizzle on the windowpanes, fills the world outside the apartment with enough white noise to make the apartment and the surrounding cityscape outside it feel small.

Foggy’s Uncle Iain makes another pot of coffee. For every person who departs, at least two more seem to appear at the door, bearing food and condolences. They wrap Anna and Foggy in hugs, cry and share their sympathy. Some clap their hands to Matt’s shoulders, others shake his hand. Candace arrives later in the morning ladened with groceries, harried and grim as she launches into a story about her conversation with the funeral home just this morning. She’s seven years older than Foggy, was eight already when Anna and Edward brought Foggy home. She has the same glib sense of humor, but she’s also more likely to air her grievances by nature, unlike Foggy who even after all this time is still as likely to let his frustrations build up until they can’t be ignored. 

Matt and he have gotten worlds better at telling each other the things that matter, have had to improve with Jack in the picture. They don’t have the luxury of ripping each other apart from the inside out any more if things get out of hand. (“You couldn’t have figured that out before you jerks sent me to live with grandma? Like, four different times.” Karen likes to joke every now and again, though it’s still a sore subject between all of them, those turbulent months when it felt like everything they’d worked for had been irreparably damaged.) 

Even now the Nelsons are hosts above reproach. They offer coffee, seats, information (Anna recounts the story of her husband’s last hours half a dozen times. The knot in Matt’s throat never lessens). 

Around mid-morning Jack wakes, pads out of his grandmother’s room to join them. He’s shed his jacket and his shoes, still sluggish with sleep as he comes into the kitchen with a weakly murmured, “Daddy?” They’ve never assigned differentiated titles between the two of them, so both Matt and Foggy jump to attention at the sound of Jack’s voice. 

Somehow the air in the kitchen becomes lighter, people stop in their conversations to greet him and admire how much he’s grown. Jack isn’t overly shy by nature—he takes after Foggy that way—but he does get intimidated by large groups of people, especially those he isn’t familiar with, takes refuge in his grandmother’s lap when he gets overwhelmed by the attention.

“Hi Beanstalk,” Anna says, the tiredness of her voice lessened as she takes Jack up in her arms, planting kisses around his face. Jack squirms and wiggles but doesn’t try to break free, perfectly content to be the object of his grandmother’s affections. “Are you hungry?” Anna asks Jack, the questioned whispered low like a secret. Anna loves Jack in a way that still sometimes feels novel to Matt, whose memories of his own grandmother are all marked by their significant differences. Iona Grace hadn’t been the warmest woman, even before Margaret Murdock had left them all behind her. Afterward, it was as though Matt and his father were just living reminders of the daughter they’d driven away from her. 

There had been a time, back when the Nelsons still lived in Hell’s Kitchen, when Anna had taken care of Jack almost every day. Even after Matt had hung up the suit, there was still the firm to see to, and for all their success there was no staying in Manhattan on just one salary, not before and certainly not after they’d begun pursuing adoption. Anna had been gracious enough to offer her help in that first year, when everything was a turbulent sea of discovery and any little upset might capsize them completely. She had been there for tantrums and colic and diaper rash. Every first they’d ever had to navigate with Jack, Anna was there, sighing into the receiver and assuring them that it was all perfectly normal and that no, they didn’t have to bother Claire with this (“I know for a fact that you two have an actual pediatrician and it is not Claire.”). Edward had been right beside her, had helped assemble the furniture in Jack’s nursery when neither Foggy or Matt could convince him it really wasn’t necessary. Matt had been relegated to folding the mountains of baby clothes bestowed on them at the baby shower Kristen had arranged for them at the office, happy to listen to Foggy and his father bicker about how to properly assemble a cradle. There had been a time when Matt had worried he didn’t worry _enough_ about Jack growing up spoiled, surrounded as he was by people who loved him so openly, who would do anything for him without a second’s hesitation. Foggy had just taken Matt’s face in hand and told him that’s what childhood was meant to be.

family

“I’ll get him something Mom.” Foggy stands, squeezes Anna’s shoulder as he walks by. Foggy makes grilled cheese sandwiches for everyone who strays into the kitchen despite all the food that’s amassed at the table, fills the room with the smell of buttered, toasted bread and three kinds of cheese (“Nelson family secret you are only privy too because of your super senses. And because I like you so much.”). He settles into an easy back and forth with Candace about the hardware store. Candace took over for their father nearly fourteen years ago now, though Edward had worked on and off up until the chemotherapy had kept him bedridden for weeks at a time. She doesn’t sound sure what she’ll do with it.

“When does Ruthie get in?” Candace asks Anna while Foggy sets a grilled cheese sandwich down in front of Jack. He sets another down for Anna who hasn’t done more than sip at a cup of herbal tea, hands another to his sister where she’s leaning against the kitchen counter. Matt gets one too, though he hadn’t asked for one, content to nurse his cup of coffee on an empty stomach. Matt grins a little when he touches his fingers to the plate and realizes his has also been cuts into four mismatched triangles. “Force of habit.” Foggy chuckles apologetically, sitting down again with his own sandwich. Matt wonders if Foggy cut the crust off his own sandwich too.

It never fails to surprise Matt how easily life carries on in the wake of tragedy. How they can sit there and discuss Jack’s upcoming soccer game, the store’s inventory, remedies for toothaches. According to Anna Ruth’s trying to switch flights in order to arrive as soon as possible but ticket prices haven’t quite gone down yet following the travel rush of the holiday season, Anna doesn’t expect her until her original arrival date, four days from now. Candace gives a snort, “Ruthie has the worst luck flying.” This launches Anna, Foggy and their assorted company into stories of Ruth’s misadventures abroad, getting stranded in a snowstorm in France, without a bus in London, missing her connection flight in Denver after a drastically delayed flight out of San Francisco. Matt finds himself laughing around a mouthful of cooling toast and feels his guilt all over again.

In the early afternoon one of Foggy’s cousins arrives with her own young children in tow. Jack climbs off his grandmother’s lap, runs out of the room without a moment’s hesitation as soon as Jeanie walks into the kitchen with a casserole dish full of garlic. “Jake and Danielle are looking for you.” She says and he’s off like a flash. 

(Jack knows, as much as a child can know, about what’s happened. They had talked to him when Edward was first diagnosed, explained that Daddo was sick and that they’d have to take extra good care of him. Edward had explained why his hair was gone, done his best to explain why he was tried and looked different and slept more when before he would have taken Jack to the park. 

_“Daddy?”_

_“I’m sorry Kid, but we have to go to Nan’s.”_

When Matt had told him, Jack had just sat there in his small bed rubbing his eyes, “Is Daddo in Heaven?” He’d asked, confused and sleepy and Matt, who had no idea what Heaven meant to Jack, could only nod against his hair, still sweet with the smell of lavender scented no-tear shampoo. In the other room he could still hear Foggy’s hiccuping breath. “Yeah kid, he’s in Heaven.”)

“Hey can you at least pretend we’re raising you with manners!” Foggy calls after him, but Jack’s only response is a laugh, the sound of his feet on the floorboards, joining the stampede of small sneakered feet running around the apartment. Foggy sighs. “He’s clearly inherited your blatant disregard for the rules.” He says with weak cheer, and Matt swallows the dryness in his mouth, lets his hand slip across the expanse of the table top between them until he finds the protruding bone at the side of Foggy’s wrist. Foggy flinches for a second, but then he turns his hand over on the table, tangles his fingers in Matt’s and squeezes. “Well then, I hope for his sake he meets someone like you to keep him in line.” Matt answers. 

Foggy’s laughter is such a jarring sound, disbelieving and sharp, his fingers so tight around Matt’s fingers it hurts. “Oh my God, Matty that’s such bull—” At the opposite side of the table, Anna clears her throat warningly. Foggy drifts off into silence, absorbed back into the larger conversation. 

He doesn’t let go. Neither does Matt. 

-

They leave in the late afternoon, between bouts of rain that come closer together the later it gets. Foggy promises to meet Candace tomorrow at the funeral home and then come back to the apartment to help his mother sort some of the paper work the hospital’s asked for. Jack, already fussy and reluctant to leave despite losing his playmates sometime after lunch, struggles against Matt when he goes to put on Jack’s sneakers. He kicks his feet petulantly, sniffles a little when Matt holds out his jacket to him. 

Jack starts crying outright when Foggy informs him that he can’t come back tomorrow when Foggy comes, “I’m gonna leave really early, Bug. And it’s all gonna be boring adult stuff.” Matt feels a helpless ripple of irritation and embarrassment when Anna goes to comfort Jack, soothing a hand up and down his back until his breathing evens again. “Don’t cry Flap-Jack.” Matt can hear the swipe of her palms over Jack’s damp face, “Ask nicely and I think your dads will let you come over soon and we can have a sleep over. Would you like that?” Jack nods silently, still sniffing delicately but finally accepting the jacket Matt holds out to him.

The walk back to the subway is oddly silent without Jack’s chatter, He stays close to Matt, forgoing Foggy’s offer to carry him down the station stairs, slips his tear-damp hand in to Matt’s as they descend to the platform. If Foggy’s hurt by it he doesn’t say anything, just as quiet as Jack, and Matt stands between them, right elbow bumping Foggy’s, left hand clutched in Jack’s. 

Maybe that’s why the train ride home feels longer. The train car is packed, a jumble of people and sounds and smells, a chaotic mess that makes Matt dizzy. He sits with Jack on his lap in the only empty seat they could find, rests his head against Jack’s and concentrates on reining in his focus, condenses the world to a pinpoint, to Foggy and Jack, shuts out the rest of it in order to empty his head of the incessant chatter that’s been going on inside since he woke up alone this morning. Foggy touches the top of his head gently, almost as though he knows the mad chase playing out inside Matt’s head. It’s a single reassuring touch, there and then gone when the train jerks and he has to grab hold of the overhead rail again. 

-

Matt gives Jack his bath that night, listens to him splash in the tub with his assortment of toys. Jack tells him a story about a turtle lost at sea and Matt does what he can to keep track of the twists and turns, tries to get Jack to keep still so that he doesn’t run soapy water into his eyes when it’s finally time to get to the bathing portion of the proceedings. 

Jack’s nodding off a little by the time Matt’s helped him out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel, overseen the brushing of teeth and hair. He gets Jack into his favorite pair of pajamas (Thor-themed, a Christmas gift from Karen who still finds it hilarious to bestow Jack with superhero-themed gifts whenever possible. To date, all attempts to dissuade her have only added to her conviction that is her responsibility as honorary godmother to see Jack outfitted in the most ridiculous hero gear). He’s completely recovered from his earlier upset, happy to climb on Foggy where he’s sitting on the couch. “Can we read the taco dragon?” He asks, his sleepiness taking a backseat to his desire for a story. Matt reads to him some nights, they’ve cultivated a fair-sized collection of picture books with braille lettering, but they both agree that Foggy’s story times are best. He has a long history of storytelling to draw on that Matt can’t compete with.

Matt almost steps in, offers to read Jack another book, maybe two, unsure if Foggy’s up to playing a dragon tonight. But Foggy just takes Jack up over his shoulder, incites Jack’s excited shriek of approval as they both rise up off the couch. Matt listens from the kitchen as Foggy gets Jack settled in bed, the blankets pulled up and the pillows rearranged, smiles as he takes his cup of tea over to the window that leads out to the fire escape. Foggy roars a dragon’s belch, which never fails to amuse Jack, and his laughter follows Matt outside, to the cold January air.

He lowers the window behind him to keep the cold out of the apartment. He can still hear them at his back, the story evolving in its ridiculousness, Foggy’s animated narration and Jack’s enjoyment. And when the dragon's’ tale is over Jack begs for another and like always Foggy complies, reads Jack another book though this time he asks Jack’s help reading every other page. Jack’s reading is slow and stumbling but to Foggy it’s just a sign that their kid’s a genius in the making. Matt’s torn between agreeing and wondering if it doesn’t just mean Jack’s listened to the same stories enough times to memorize parts of them.

But the cold air is full of other sounds, horns and sirens and screams (shrieked laughter and excited exclamations, and worse, so much worse, the sort of horror and dismay that made the mask necessary, that pulled Matt out into the darkness of Hell’s Kitchen). He holds himself still, the sounds from the apartment fading away, drowned out by: a mugging two blocks over, a car alarm to the south, someone crying, the shrill acceleration of tires on asphalt, breaking glass. He listens and listens and hopes to catch the sound of one of the others interceding, helping the city in a way Matt won’t— _can’t_ —anymore. Inside the Devil yowls and seeks escape but Matt doesn’t move, stands there on his fire escape listening, just listening. Nothing more. He reminds himself that his place isn’t out there anymore.

“You wanna come in now, Matty?” Foggy asks at his back and Matt startles, fingers tightening around his mug of tea, long gone cold. 

“Yeah.” Matt nods, turning, stiff with cold and age, back through the window into the warmth of their home. 

-

Jack’s not sleeping yet but he’s close, his breathing slowing incrementally with every passing second. 

Matt offer Foggy a cup of tea, listens to his dry snort as he asks for a cup of something stronger instead instead. Foggy doesn’t finish his drink and they turn in early instead. Foggy heaves a heavy sigh when he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, his hair shifts when he runs his hands through it. “Foggy?” Matt asks cautiously, taking a seat beside him. He reaches for Foggy’s arms, walks his fingers down the inside of his forearm until he’s finds the heart of Foggy’s palm. Matt’s pulse turns skittish though Foggy’s remains relatively at ease.

“I just—I should have been ready right? I mean, all the doctors said—it was just a matter of time. It was always going to happen. But like, I can’t believe it. I can’t—it doesn’t feel real Matty. I can’t—” Foggy swallows hard, his knee jumps beneath their hands. “I wish he hadn’t been alone. I wish they would have called me—that I could have been there—that I—” His skin is warm, almost feverish, his breathing picks up. “He shouldn’t have been alone.” His voice pitches upward until it cracks; and he sucks in a hard breath, his shoulders bow. “ _Christ._ ” It sounds like more of a curse than a prayer. “He was my dad Matty. He was the only dad I ever—he was _my dad._ ” 

This time Foggy seeks out Matt, his arms go around him with bruising strength, crush them together and hold tight. (Even when they were in the maelstrom of adoption procedures Foggy rarely talked about it, he’s only ever been a Nelson as far as he’s concerned, only ever known Anna and Edward as parents. His family just as Jack and Matt are his family now. And now—now a part of that family is gone.)

Matt digs his fingers into Foggy’s back, clings to him almost as tightly as Foggy holds him, and doesn’t say anything at all. He lets Foggy mumble and cry and go quiet, a cycle of heartbreak without an end in sight.

-

Matt’s dream dissolves into consciousness so quickly he doesn’t have time to remember it at all. There’s a tug on the blanket behind him, the bedframe shakes and the mattress sinks under small hands and knees. Foggy groans as Jack crawls over him, but he rolls over to make room for him between them. Matt scoots over too, almost to the edge of the mattress and Jack takes every available inch, wiggles under the sheets and blankets before curling into himself. His bare feet are icy against Matt’s stomach—Jack always kicks his socks off in his sleep, always—so Matt wraps his hand around one of them, tries to rub some warmth into it. Jack sighs, his breathing slowing until it’s a wispy whistle. Matt counts breaths, one, two, three, feels Jack slowly unwind beside him, legs kicking out and arms splaying further out as he sinks deeper and deeper into sleep. Across the bed Foggy sighs. “If he keeps this up we’re gonna have to invest in a bigger bed.” Foggy whispers, voice tired and small, the edges still worn with sadness. Matt wonders if he’s slept at all. 

Jack kicks Matt in the thigh as he stretches out further.

-

Jack fidgets on the pew besides him. Last night’s tantrum seems poised to make its reappearance the longer the service lasts, whispering every few minutes: “Is it done now? Can we go?” Matt quiets him with a small shake of his head, reminds him that there’s still this or that part of the Mass to go before they can go grab food.

“Like last time remember?” Matt says quietly, hoping it will ease Jack’s impatience to remember that he’s sat through this before. A woman two pews back mutters to her companion about how Matt needs to better discipline his child if he wants to bring him to Mass. “So disrespectful.” She says, just barely under her breath. Behind his glasses, Matt rolls his eyes, recognizing the voice as belonging to the same woman who spends the duration of communion gossiping. Jack’s spirits lift a little when it’s time to go up for Communion, when he gets to accompany Matt up to the altar. He makes a point of telling Matt he’s folding his arms the right way and the priest laughs under his breath as he bows to bless Jack in lieu of giving him the Eucharist. “When do I get a Jesus cookie?” Jack asks back at their pew, jumping on the kneeler while Matt prays. (Like always he gives thanks for his life and asks forgiveness for his sins. Today he prays for the eternal rest of Edward’s soul and the safe keeping of his family.) 

“If you really want to when you’re older, you’ll go to special classes to learn what it means and then you can go up and get it too.” Matt answers, sitting back down and pulling Jack up on the pew besides him. He’s given up correcting Jack’s misnomer. Of all the things he’s picked up from the adults in his life, ‘Jesus cookie’ is hardly the worst.

He’s only started accompanying Matt to Sunday Mass recently, bitten by curiosity after going with Anna on a few occasions. Foggy had capitulated years ago, after much discussion and a fair amount of disagreement, on the matter of having Jack baptized. They’ve since agreed that Jack would attend public schools, that they would answer his questions and let him come to his own conclusions about religion. (“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” “Hate to break it you buddy but you are not exactly the poster boy for well-adjusted Catholics. If there is such a thing.”) 

When Edward had gotten sick, they’d explained the facts, how it would change his grandfather physically and the whole family emotionally. It was Edward who’d told Jack outright about Heaven, and not even Foggy had it in him to intercede, just hung back and nodded while Edward answered Jack’s hundreds of curious questions as best he could.

(“Do you really believe all that?” Foggy had asked that night, Jack sleeping in a messy twist between them. “Even after everything?” Matt had stayed quiet, thought about a time before, sitting in a near empty chapel asking Father Lantom if he believed in the Devil. Foggy knew Matt believed in God, his faith fire-forged by the trials in his life. That wasn’t what he was asking. Maybe Matt didn’t think of Heaven the way he had when he was ten, when he’d pictured his dad exactly like he had been in life—because why would he want to? Why would he want his dad tired and hurt and scrambling to make ends meet? Maybe he didn’t believe in an eternal green pasture or a castle in the clouds where all things would be made new again. What he did believe, what he had come to believe, was that there was more beyond the world they knew, something peaceful. “Maybe not the part where it’s always baseball season.” He’d answered teasingly, which had had the desired result of making Foggy laugh through the tightness in his chest. “Do you?” Foggy shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t—I haven’t really thought about too much since— _y’know._ ” Since Matt’s retirement had severely reduced the chances that Matt would die young. ”I guess it would be nice though, to find out that stuff was true.” Foggy’s faith has always been in people.)

Mass comes to a close not a moment too soon, Jack bounds out of the pew with barely concealed impatience, though he stops at the end to wait for Matt to follow him. His small hand is already extended and waiting for Matt’s when he reaches the aisle, and there’s a few mumbled comments here and there, words Matt tunes out in favor of leading them out of the church. It’s cold outside, but the rain’s done for the day if Matt’s reading the signs correctly. Jack’s galoshes splash through the residual puddles on the street, though he doesn’t leap into them with his usual gusto, aware that he’s pretty much bound to Matt by their linked hands until they reach their destination. 

“ _Muñeco chulo!_ ”Claire’s warm voice greets them, causes Jack’s fingers squeeze at Matt’s though he doesn’t let go until they’re arm’s width from the table Claire’s sitting at. “C’mere, give me a kiss.” 

“Tía Claire!” Jack calls back gleefully. Claire might not be their pediatrician but she’s been there through the years regardless. It takes a village to raise a child Sister Madge used to say, and now, years later and a father himself, Matt most definitely agrees. Jack smacks a kiss to Claire’s face, unencumbered by any type of shyness. He climbs into the booth besides her, the plastic bench cover squeaks beneath him as he settles into place besides Claire. The diner is small but crowded with other patrons getting Sunday morning brunch, the clink of flatware and the mingling aromas of home fries, bacon, and coffee. A waitress comes over with menus and a placemat for Jack to color, crayons bumping against one another in a small cup she sets down on the table.

Jack decides to ignore both Claire and Matt in favor of his coloring. Matt listens to the blunt point of the crayon dragging over the paper in haphazard zig-zags. He wonders what it’ll be.

“I’m sorry about Ed.” Claire says quietly, lifting her cup to her lips (coffee, black, one sugar, just like always). “How’s Foggy doing?”

Matt toys with the edge of the napkin wrapped around his set of utensils. The clamor in the kitchen pitches into a full roar for a second, becomes an inescapable din of noise. He shakes his head to clear it. “He’s-- uh--he and Candace, his sister, uh, they had some stuff to straighten out with the funeral home and then--he’s helping his mom today, getting stuff together. Edward, they’d made most of their arrangements already but, there are still a few things to sign off on.” He swallows. When the waitress comes back with his coffee and Jack’s orange juice Matt sighs inwardly with inexplicable relief. 

Claire makes a short noise, soft and sympathetic. “It’s rough. When my mom—” She pauses, her heartbeat quickens. When Claire’s mother had passed away two years ago it had been a sudden devastating blow to her. Even now, it isn’t something she can talk about easily. “If—whatever he needs, whatever help I can offer...I’m here, okay?” Her cup pings off the table top when she sets it down. “That goes for you too.” Matt starts to shake his head, uncomfortable again now that her sympathy is directed towards him. 

Claire reads him easily as a book, generously shifts her focus to Jack. “What are you drawing there, _Mono_?” Jack’s scribbling continues. “I’m making a picture for Daddo.” Jack answers simply. “See? He has hair.”

“Yeah. I like the color.”

“Green is his favorite.” Jack carries on, still drawing. Claire doesn’t make any attempt at correcting his tense, doesn’t ask if he understands Edward’s gone. (Jack likes drawing. He’s drawn them all dozens of pictures. Edward used to show them to the nurses when he was in the hospital.)

“Want pancakes, Kid?” Matt asks instead, because that’s what they usually get him when they come here, and Jack’s eagerness for food only doubles when Matt lets him get chocolate chips added to his breakfast. Claire steers the conversation back to steadier grounds: the office, the clinic, Jack’s school. She teases Matt a little about how he’s planning to handle Jack going to school full time in the coming fall. Jack steals fruit off Matt’s plate and wraps it in a pancake and calls himself a breakfast dragon. Claire snaps a picture of him and sends it to Foggy.

“I thought giving him sugar for breakfast was a big ole no-no.” Foggy says over the phone when Matt answers. They’ve relocated to a park not too far from the apartment, small and crowded with families looking to take advantage of the break in the rain. Claire stayed behind to keep an eye on Jack, sent him away with a gentle hand to Matt’s elbow so he could answer his phone when it started chanting Foggy’s name. 

Matt shrugs. It doesn’t matter that Foggy isn’t here to see him. “He’s wearing himself out right now. Besides, I’ll feed him broccoli for dinner. It’ll even itself out. I’m pretty sure.”

Foggy tsks, but there’s laughter in his voice when he says, “Wow, Doctor Spock would be so proud.”

Matt grins a little, ducking his head, still partially attune to Jack’s fluttering pulse climbing all over the play structure. “Hey I’m just trying to earn one of those number one dad mugs before he’s in college.”

“Don’t think I won’t give you a run for your money, Matty.”

Matt rolls his shoulders, hesitating for a second before finally pulling the bandage off the conversation. “How’s it going?”

Foggy sighs. “Well...dying is apparently super tedious. 10 for 10 do not recommend.” 

Matt frowns. “Want us to come over? Or maybe Claire can—”

“Dude, don’t co-opt Sunday morning brunch with unscheduled babysitting.” Foggy chides scornfully, “But nah, it is really boring adult stuff over here. Jack would lose his mind. I feel like _I’m_ losing my mind here.” Foggy’s breath pulls up short. “Caddy says hi.”

“I say hi back.” Matt chews on his lower lip. “You sure?”

There’s a static rustle, he thinks Foggy’s nodding. “Yeah. I’ll be home in a bit just got a few things left for the day.”

“I’ll make dinner.” Matt says for lack of anything else to say. 

Foggy snorts. “Aw Matty, you’re gonna make someone such a good househusband one day.”

Matt smiles, “Yeah, I read somewhere it’s important to take care of your man if you want to keep him.”

“I probably shouldn’t let you in on this secret but fuck it, I’m feeling generous: You’ve got me.” 

Even now, all these years later, Matt can feel heat rising in his face alongside his smile. “Well lucky me.”

-

Matt doesn’t actually make dinner. Turns out he doesn’t have to.

Foggy went to lay down almost twenty minutes ago, Jack plodding along after him, any resentment over having been left behind officially forgotten. Matt keeps tabs on them from his place at the kitchen table (”You know there’s a perfectly good desk just over there right?” “The acoustics are better in here.” “Straight up creeper Matty.”) feels something like relief when they both drop off into sleep. 

Karen texts at the door rather than knocking, and when Matt opens the door she clears her throat, picks up a paper bag set by her feet. The thick stiff paper crinkles and there’s the distinct aroma of rosemary, thyme, and sage in the air. Karen’s signature casserole. (“Well I guess it’s better than calling it ‘The Only Thing Karen Can Cook’.” “Shorter too.”) 

Karen shifts, uncharacteristically nervous. “I made dinner—that’s, I know that’s what people do when someone dies. Right? They make dinner?” Matt nods. “That’s been my experience.” He jokes weakly, because it really hasn’t, but this isn’t the time or the place. Instead he steps to the side, “Come in, please. And, uh, thank you—you really didn’t have to, I mean, thank you, really, it wasn’t necessary.”

Karen brushes past him, crinkling paper and swishing coat, brings in the scent of jasmine and cold evening air. She’s upset, that much is obvious. She moves around their kitchen with natural ease, setting the bag down on the kitchen table. “What are you working on?” She asks, looking over the books and printouts on the table. There isn’t actually much for her to see, most of it printed out of their braille printer once Foggy got home. “Foggy asked for my expert Catholic opinion for, um, a reading for the service.”

Karen makes a soft sound, impossible for Matt to decipher. “I thought people just did that valley of death one for funerals.”

Matt shakes his head, starts collecting the loose leafs into a neat pile for him to return to later. “Not always. Mrs. Nelson--Anna, she wanted something different.” 

Karen’s hair whispers when she tucks it back behind her ear. It’s shorter now than it’s ever been before in all the time they’ve known each other, the sound of it, and its absence, is still something Matt has to get use to sometimes. 

“I wanted to come yesterday—but—Foggy said you’ve be at his parents’ place and then it was late and I didn’t think you guys would want the company—how’s—I mean, fuck it’s a stupid question right? No one is fine at times like these.” Her voice wavers, but Matt can practically hear her steel her resolve when she goes silent, sniffs hard once. “Do you guys need anything? Food? Lift? Free babysitter?”

Matt cracks a smile. “I thought you were already our free on-call babysitter.” 

Karen shakes her head. “Wrong. I’ve been skimming off the top of firm funds for the last five years to make up the difference.” There’s still an underlying shiver to her voice but if Karen is willing to ignore the strain in Matt’s face then he’ll overlook it. There’s a pause, the uncomfortable shift of Karen’s feet on the floorboards. Matt ducks his head, scratches at the back of his neck. “Foggy’s sleeping.” Matt offers to fill up the quiet, “Jack and him are down right now but I was gonna wake them in a little bit to eat.”

Karen leans on the back of a chair. “Oh, I’ll just get out of your hair then—”

Matt shakes his head. “No, don’t—please. Foggy—we’d love to have you. You know you’re always welcomed.”

Karen’s hands squeeze, “Are you sure?” It’s wrong, that she of all people, should ever sound nervous about her place here. 

Matt nods, “I insist. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll set the table.” Matt takes a step towards the cabinets over the sink where they keep their dishes. He redirects in order to reach out for her arm, squeezes her shoulder. “Thank you Karen.” Matt’s lived with the memory of his dad longer than he ever had him in person, but he has that at least. He doesn’t know what this feels like to Karen, whose own past is a secret she guards more fiercely than any vigilante alter ego. Matt loves with the same violent protectiveness he feels over all the people who matter most to him, and he wishes there was something he could have done to ward off the afflictions of a fang-toothed fate. But Karen’s never asked for anyone to save her, doesn’t need Matt to fight battles with the shadows of her past. Karen, who despite every shortcoming Matt has yet to overcome, grieves with them and cares for them, is a part of their family in every way that matters.

Foggy, though still somewhat groggy, is of course happy to see her. Jack is even more ecstatic. “Aunt Karen! Aunt Karen! I have a new DinoBot! Do you wanna see it?” Karen ducks low and picks Jack up in a bear hug, squeezes him with a theatrical groan. “After dinner Goose.” She says, well-trained in the art of negotiating with their five-year-old. 

“Karen delivers.” Matt says when he sets the reheated casserole on the table. “Jackpot.” Foggy says. Karen reaches for Foggy, her bracelets scratching faintly across the tabletop until her hand closes around the closest part of Foggy, her fingers kneading into the soft material of his sweater. 

Conversation is quiet but consistent. Karen asks when the service will be and once Foggy’s told her they’re still trying to finalize the dates she doesn’t ask him any other questions about the logistics. Foggy talks a little bit about his day in between asides to Jack.

“Finish your veggies Bug.” 

They ask about Karen’s weekend, whether Malcolm’s enjoying his visit to his parents and when Karen’s expecting him home. “Next weekend. Pretty sure Jessica’s looking forward to it more than I am.” 

Karen stays for seconds, coffee, and an in-depth DinoBot expo. (Like all other members of the Nelson-Murdock family, Jack is already deeply in love with Karen Page and has apparently made it his life’s work to make her laugh.)

She convinces Jack to go to bed with minimal crying, plants a kiss on his forehead that leaves behind the trace scent flowers and beeswax from her lipstick. “Be good Goose.” She says before she lets Foggy walk her to the door. Matt tries so hard not to listen to them as he helps Jack get ready for bed, but he catches pieces of their conversation regardless. (“Whatever you need Foggy, I’m a phone call away. Got that?” “Yes ma’am.”)

Jack goes to sleep halfway through that night’s story. Matt flicks on Jack’s night light before he goes, finds his way back to Foggy, still in the kitchen washing their dinner plates. “I’ll finish…” Matt says, coming up next to Foggy at the sink. “Do my ears deceive me? Is Matt Murdock offering to do the dishes?” Foggy teases lightly, rinsing another dish. 

“I do dishes.” Matt protests, makes Foggy laugh outright. 

“Buddy, in all our years of living in sin you have never offered to do dishes unless you were trying to get in my good graces. So unless you did something really stupid today—”

Matt scowls. “Didn’t know it was stupid to want to do something for you. Please stop me before I ever try to offer again.”

Foggy stops short. “Well, I’m not asking you to do anything for me right now.” 

Matt knows. Foggy’s handling everything without him. 

Foggy swallows hard. “Don’t—please, man. I can wash a dish, okay, I’m not—” He sighs, irritation clearly apparent in his voice. “This sucks but I need you to not—” The running water rushes in Matt’s ears. 

“You’re not made of glass.” Matt says softly, lays his palm between Foggy’s shoulders, feels the tension tightening the muscles there. “I know that.” He curls his fingers into the fabric of Foggy’s sweater, relaxes them into the warmth he finds there. Foggy stays carefully still. “Are you petting me?” He asks wryly, already easing a little under the touch. 

Matt’s fingers stop moving. “No?”

Foggy chuckles weakly under his breath, turns the water back on to rinse another dish. “I’m okay.” He says again. “And I know I’m lying but I’m also not, y’know. I’m—this fucking sucks. A lot. But I’m not gonna crawl into bed and never come out again.”

Matt resumes stroking Foggy’s back, “I know that. But I just—I know I can’t make this better, but I just—” Matt swallows, full of apprehension. Fuck it. “I wish I could help.”

Foggy’s heart keeps pace with Matt’s as the water turns off again. “I’m gonna touch you with prune-y hands now.” Foggy’s hands are clammy against the sides of Matt’s face, his fingertips just beginning to wrinkle. If there was a time when Matt would have cringed or whined about Foggy’s prune-y hands on his face or the strong smell of artificial lemons steeped into his skin, it was five years, spit up rags, and hundreds of diapers ago. Foggy’s evening coffee is already going sour on his tongue, but Matt could care less, kisses Foggy back with everything he has ( _not enough, not enough_ ). His hand leaves Foggy’s back to curl over the column of Foggy’s neck, his other hand settling at Foggy’s side, twisting in the fabric of his sweater. Foggy slows the kiss, makes it something softer, kinder, something meant to last longer. His hands drop from Matt’s face so that he can slide his arms around Matt’s shoulders, pulling him a fraction closer. He doesn’t let Matt go even when the kiss draws to its end, tips their foreheads together to make up the difference. “Y’know, Dad used to say you were one of the good ones.” Foggy’s voice is as soft as the kiss he presses his mouth to the cupid bow of Matt’s lip. “The man probably pestered me worse than Mom ever has about locking this down before you wake up and figure out what’s good for you.”

“Foggy—”

“Shh, I’m reminiscing about my dead father Matty. You could try it some time—” He makes a weird choked noise, something like a snort and a sob, “Sorry that was—”

“No, it’s okay.” Matt shakes his head, presses his palm flat to Foggy’s spine. He doesn’t talk about Dad often, it isn’t something he knows how to do. Dad might be the last secret Matt still keeps from the people in his life today, Foggy’s never seemed to resent him for it. Matt won’t hold anything Foggy says now against him, it doesn’t seem fair. “He used to tell me the same thing too Foggy—about you.”

Foggy chuckles. “If you’re too good for _me_ and I’m too good for _you_ , who's driving the bus?”

Matt shrugs, grinning weakly. “In my defense, I never did get a hang of the whole driving thing.”

“Hey, you can’t blame that on me. I tried, remember?” Matt doesn’t answer, hears the shift in Foggy’s breathing, the slight pause that belies more words forthcoming. “You’re doing fine work Murdock, gold-star worthy care-taking is occurring in this home. I’ll make sure to sing your praises more often so that you get the right idea. Let’s just...let’s not change it, okay?”

Matt squeezes at Foggy’s side, nods so that their foreheads slide against one another. “I just—I’m sorry.” He says raggedly. “I’m so…”

Foggy’s cheek slides against Matt’s with a barely there rasp of stubble, his arms tighten their hold. “Me too.” He says quietly, voice infinitely small in their kitchen. Foggy pulls back, leaves Matt cold in his wake. “C’mon buddy, we’ll fight over these dishes tomorrow. Let’s hit the hay.”

Matt isn’t tired yet, not the kind of tired that’ll lead to sleep anyhow, but he doesn’t resist the gentle tug of Foggy’s hand on his arm leading him to bed.

-

They don’t go to work Monday. Matt telecommutes in the morning, makes plans with Kristen, checks in with a few clients to inform them that another lawyer will be working with them while Foggy’s out of the office. Flowers start arriving by mid-morning while Foggy’s out with his sister, sent by friends, co-workers, and clients they’ve remained close to. There’s a turbulent battle of aromas, roses and tiger lilies, hydrangeas and freesias. Matt’s head aches by the sixth arrangement, he tries to spread them out across the apartment and cracks the windows open in order to ventilate the rooms. 

He picks up Jack up from school and they grab lunch before jumping a train to Anna’s. Foggy’s there, sitting in the living room talking in his sternest voice to someone about the price of caskets. “They’re trying to charge us extra fees for, and I quote, ‘short notice of necessity’.” Candace says darkly when they join her in the kitchen. “Good thing Mom’s out or she’d blow a fuse.” Jack hangs back a little, one hand squeezing at the back of Matt’s jacket. He’s not used to hearing Foggy upset. “C’mon Jack, let’s see what junk food mom’s hiding in here.” Candace offers Jack her hand and he pulls away slowly. If nothing else comes from this whole ordeal, Jack’s sweet tooth is certainly going to be spoiled rotten. Matt leaves the two of them to root through Anna’s pantry, goes back to the living room to catch the tail end of Foggy’s conversation. 

Foggy sags back against the couch when he’s finally off the phone, slumps into Matt’s side on the couch, head butting up against Matt’s shoulder until he lifts his arm and drapes it over Foggy’s shoulder. “People suck.” He groans.

Matt makes a sympathetic noise. “Did you tell them you would sue?”

Foggy groans again. “Nah, I’m saving that as my trump card.”

“I thought sending Caddy in person would be your trump card.” Matt says, only partially joking. Candace Nelson can level cities in the right mood. Or the wrong one. (There might have been an incident, almost ten years back, when she’d given Matt a violently descriptive shovel talk that Foggy swears still makes Matt blanche at the mere mention of it.) Matt’s made it his mission to never piss her off. 

Foggy turns his face into Matt’s chest, muffling his words when he says, “God, no Matty, we need these people alive to do business with.”

They sit in near silence for a few minutes, Foggy’s pulse resetting to a resting rate. “When I die,” Foggy says, his voice lighthearted and borderline teasing, but Matt’s stomach still turns at the thought. “Don’t even bother with a casket, okay? Just like toss me to some pigeons in Central Park. Give me back to the land.” 

Matt swallows hard, cards his fingers through Foggy’s hair. “I thought you wanted a viking funeral.”

“Meh,” Foggy’s shrug is small, a barely there wiggle in his shoulders. “Unless you can get one of the Thors to officiate I like my new idea better.”

Matt’s never planned on burying Foggy. It’s never been a part of the future he’s envisioned for them. He’d known beyond the shadow of a doubt, for years, that Foggy would be burying him (Matt had only hoped that Foggy wouldn’t have given up on him by then), and then, when it had all changed, when he’d finally found another way to co-exist with the Devil inside—

Foggy is a fixture. Permanent in a way Matt knows is unrealistic, as his presence in Matt’s live has never been a certainty, Matt’s tested it and fucked it up and forced him away enough times to know that for sure. 

But Foggy leaving is not the same as Foggy dying, his heartbeat ceasing to exist in the universe at large, its singular rhythm removed from the living orchestra that Matt measures his day to day life by. “Can’t make any promises.” Matt says, trying to match Foggy’s tone and failing utterly. 

“Or hey, we could go together like the old couple in _The Notebook_.” Foggy says, grabbing for Matt’s free hand. “And then neither of us have to deal with the planning. Well—Karen will probably have to deal with the planning. We’ve got to make sure to leave her something sweet in our will…”

Going together. Matt laces their fingers together. “That works too.”

-

Planning a funeral is like planning most other functions meant to be attended by a large array of friends and family. Stressful, tense, tedious. The added grief doesn’t improve things. Matt does what he can. He works part-time, stays on top of Foggy’s caseload and his own, keeps in touch with the runnings of Nelson, Murdock, and Associates (and what he can’t do on his own Karen helps with or handles with the same brutal efficiency Matt shamelessly relies on). He gets Jack ready for school in the morning, spends time with him after school, steps back and lets Foggy handle the bedtime routine, sits in on story times and remembers to leave dinner dishes in the sink.

Matt and Anna select readings, and Anna even asks Matt to sit in with her during her meeting with the priest who will be presiding over the service, but it’s Ruth, after she’s arrived, who finalizes a slideshow, puts together the program, and agrees to do the first reading.

“ _Pigeons_.” Foggy sighs ruefully after they’ve signed the last of the endless paperwork, accepting the beer Matt hands him and picking at the slice of pizza he plucked from the box cooling on the counter.

From his seat at the table Jack starts chirping around a mouthful of pizza. 

-

The night before the funeral Karen picks them up in her battered but true car and drives them to the funeral home for the wake. Ruth and Anna are already there; Candace arrives a little while later carrying boxes laden with plastic bins. “Let me help you.” Karen offers immediately, and Foggy follows them out comes back with a box he sets on a side table set up in a hallway adjacent to the room where the wake will be held. “Candace picked up some stuff for tonight. Juice and water and cookies and stuff for people to pick at. I hadn’t even thought of that.” Matt feels useless, standing off to one side while Karen and Foggy help set everything out, Jack having attached himself to Anna’s hip as soon as they arrived. 

Foggy and he had worried this situation would frighten him but Jack seems so undisturbed by it all. He understands his grandfather was sick and that he’s gone now, but Matt knows he spent the afternoon drawing a picture for Edward. (“It’s Captain America and he’s fighting all the germs away.” Jack had described to Karen in the car on their way over.) People start arriving slowly, give their condolences and pay their respects. The room is small, smells of candle wax and a pungent flower Matt doesn’t know the name of. At the front of the room is the open casket the Nelsons will bury tomorrow, but what’s lying in it isn’t Edward Nelson anymore, silent and still and smelling of nothing but chemicals.

Matt doesn’t register moving through the crowd, his body moving of its own accord, cane clutched in one hand and dragging behind him rather than leading the way to the bathroom. The stall door bangs open in front of him, his knees hurt at the blunt impact of the bathroom tiles. 

He heaves into the toilet but there isn’t much to throw up and his empty stomach aches from the effort. When he can finally lift his head out of the toilet, his face is damp with sweat and tears. Matt’s not unfamiliar with carnage, blood and burnt skin, bile and gore, but this is different. This is death.

“Matt?”

Karen, soft spoken and unintimidated by the fact that she’s entering a men’s room. Her heels click on the tiles as she approaches. “Matt you okay? Iain said you were in here.” She doesn’t squeeze into the stall alongside him which he appreciates infinitely, the budding claustrophobia in his stomach making him gag again. Instead she hovers near the open stall door. “Do you—want me to get you some water?” Matt nods mutely, coughing weakly a few more times. He follows her retreat, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He spits into the toilet one more time, fumbling to flush away the acrid smell of bile. His mouth tastes terrible. Karen comes back, offers him a Styrofoam cup of water and a piece of gum. 

“Was it the crowd?” Karen asks softly, taking the cup back and picking up Matt’s discarded cane too when he’s finally ready to pick himself off the floor.

Matt shakes his head, “I mean—not just, it’s just, a lot.”

Karen hums, touches the crown of Matt’s head. “ Foggy’s got Jack and is using him to get out of awkward social interactions. Wanna get some air?” 

Matt lets her lead him outside, grateful he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eye as they make their way out the door to the cold winter air. Karen shivers outside, but she stays silent, rubs her hands over her sleeves.

“Okay,” Matt says after however many minutes it takes him to gather himself, to calm his thoughts and ignore the acidic aftertaste of vomit in his mouth. Foggy’s inside. Foggy and Jack and all the rest of the people who think of Matt as part of their family. He can do this. He has to do this. He will.

-

The morning after the funeral Foggy wakes long enough to reposition himself against Matt’s side when his alarm goes off, calling Matt to morning Mass. Foggy’s cheek is warm where it presses against the curve of Matt’s shoulder, his knee nudges Matt’s. “Stay home. Stay here.” He whispers, fingers trailing over a scar Matt acquired a lifetime ago, palm pressing flat over the uneven terrain of it on Matt’s stomach. “Can you just—”

“Yes.” Matt agrees, not needing to hear the rest of the request. He turns on his side, wraps Foggy in his arms, his legs, offers him whatever shelter he can offer him. Anything. Everything. 

“As long as you want.”

-

“Daddy’s sad.” Jack says simply, swinging his legs back and forth. He’d begged to join Matt out on the fire escape today and Matt had relented only on the condition that Jack not jump around or try to shrug off his jacket and hat. The sun hasn’t set yet but the days are still characteristically short, the weak warmth of daylight seeping quickly out of the air as the day drags on. 

Matt, sitting there with Jack on his lap under a wooly knit afghan stolen off the couch, nods. “I know, Kid.” 

“Because Daddo’s gone.” Jack adds with a certainty that catches Matt by surprise. It’s not even a question. 

“Yeah Kid.” Matt answers, pulling Jack a little higher, wrapping his arms around him and bringing the blanket up like a shield. “We’re all sad because he’s gone. Dad’s gonna be sad about it for a while and that’s okay.” 

Jack shimmies in place, his heels digging into Matt’s legs for leverage as he repositions himself. Matt wonders how many more years he has of this. 

“Are you still sad about Grandpa Jack?” Jack asks lightly, knocking his head back so swiftly he almost catches Matt in the chin. Either he’s getting rusty or just getting old. He doesn’t think he likes either option very much. 

Jack doesn’t ask a lot of questions about Matt’s dad. To him Jack Murdock is a name on a creased and faded boxing poster framed in their living room, a figure in a few solitary pictures, a character in a handful of stories. Dad’ll never be what Edward Nelson was to Jack and there are days when that hurts Matt as much as not having Dad for himself, not being able to show him the man Matt’s become, finally capable of doing what Dad always wanted for him. Fighting his fights with something other than his fists. 

“Somedays I’m sad.” Matt answers honestly, “I miss him a lot.”

Jack’s small sneakered feet stop swinging. He seems to get heavier in Matt’s arms, leaning into his hold. He goes quiet, a pensive silence that makes Matt uncomfortable. Five year olds shouldn’t know pensive silences should they? Is this something Jack’s learned from Matt?

Cars honk below, people chatter, complain about the cold. “I don’t want you or Daddy to go to Heaven.” Jack says with an air of utmost finality. One of his mittened hands clasps at Matt’s. “Not forever.” 

Matt presses his lips together, a new wave of cold sinking to the bottom of his belly that has nothing to do with the setting sun. He can’t tell Jack they won’t die anymore than he could promise Foggy he’d always come back at the end of a patrol. Even if Matt never puts the mask on another day in his life there are plenty of things—illness, accidents, fate—there’s no promising Jack he’ll always be there no matter how badly he wishes he could. “I’m right here.” Matt says, which isn’t an answer but it's the kindest truth he can offer his son. “We’re both here with you.” He covers Jack’s hand with his free hand, rests his chin atop his head. 

Jack sniffs, but he doesn’t cry outright, burrows a little closer to Matt. “I’ll miss you too.” Jack says quietly and Matt’s mouth twists against his will, a searing knot lodged in his throat. He seeks out the soft curve of Jack’s cheek, chilled by the early evening air and presses a kiss there. Jack smells faintly of orange juice and graham crackers. “I love you kid.” Another thing beyond Matt’s control. 

Life isn’t fair, but Matt’s known that almost as long as he’s been alive. He can’t remember a time when he had any sort of misconception about what the world owed him. The world isn’t fair and Matt spent years fighting the universe at large to make it just a little bit better, to dole out punishment to those who escaped justice and protect people who had no one else to protect them. Foggy called him a stubborn ass, and he was. He still is. The mask never made a difference. And maybe Matt knows he can’t fix every problem, not with the law and not with his fists, but he still didn’t want Jack to know it, not yet. Matt had hoped, had prayed, he’d be able to keep the world safe for Jack just a little while longer.

-

The flowers he brought last time were cleared out long ago, their space left vacant and waiting for the new flowers Matt brought with him today. It’s a generic arrangement of baby’s breath and red roses (red like the suit he’s never been able to throw away, like the fighter’s robe he keeps safely stored in a trunk in his bedroom, and Jack’s favorite sweater).

There are still wet leaves to clear away, twigs and overgrown grass and the occasional piece of discarded trash, but it’s good to work with his hands, to leave nothing behind but the still smooth expanse of cold stone. He traces the letters engraved across the surface though he knows the shape of them by heart, every dip and curve, _Jonathan Murdock_. He holds his thumb against the dash that separates the beginning of his father’s life from the ending, wishes it were bigger, more demonstrative of the life its intended to represent.

It never will. At the end of the day all it can be is a line etched in stone and the responsibility of remembering his father’s life is Matt’s alone to carry. It’s the only legacy any one of them can hope to leave behind when they’re gone. It’s what Edward left them. What they’ll leave Jack, what he’ll carry on for himself. The memory of love and life.

Matt sinks back on his heels, wipes his hand as clean as he can on his jeans before tugging his gloves back on. The city is almost quiet here, but still there, whispering around the edges of the cemetery. 

“Hey Dad.”

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note #2: If you've made it this far, thank you. I've been working on this story on and off since the beginning of the year when we experienced a loss in our own family. There are a lot of very personal aspects in this story but I hope was also able to be true to the characters as well. Except for Jack, that kid is totally a combination of my youngest nieces and nephews who are all tiny terrors. 
> 
> Title from 1 Corinthians 15:51


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